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“That’s great, doc,” I smiled. “Not much for bedside manner, huh?”
The doctor placed the chart down on his desk and folded his arms across his chest. “Mr. Ridder, from what I’ve seen, bedside manner shouldn’t be your main concern at the moment. I’m going to ask you a few questions, and please try to answer them as truthfully as you possibly can.”
As I possibly can? Really?
“How many cigarettes do you smoke a day?”
I shrugged. “Two packs, maybe three.”
“And how much alcohol do you drink?”
“I have no idea,” I replied. “In my line of work, there’s always some event or the other, and there’s always drinking.”
“What exactly is your line of work, Mr. Ridder?”
“Seriously?” I chuckled. The doctor raised an eyebrow, clearly not impressed. “I’m founder and CEO of Ridder Technology.”
“I see,” the doctor said, jotting down something in the charts. “Do you get out much, Mr. Ridder?”
“I’m always out and about,” I said.
“Exercise,” the doctor stressed. “I meant exercise.”
I wondered if sex counted, and was about to say that when the look on the doctor’s face made me think otherwise. Whatever this guy’s problem was, he was making me uneasy, and right now I needed to know what was in that chart.
“No,” I said. “Listen, can you tell me the results of all these tests you made me do?”
“In a minute,” the doctor said. “How about your diet?”
“Steak and pussy,” I answered with a grin. He shot me a look that told me he was not impressed or amused. “Listen, doc, I appreciate the tough love antics, but I got enough of that growing up from my old man. So, let’s just skip to the part where you tell me what the fuck’s wrong with me.”
The doctor looked at me for a beat, sighed, took off his glasses and blew out a long sigh. “Hypertension, high cholesterol, beginning signs of serious atherosclerosis, high levels of liver enzymes.” He stopped. “Should I go on?”
“Yes, please do, only this time in plain English?”
“You’re a step away from a heart attack or stroke that will probably kill you, Mr. Ridder,” he said, setting the glasses back on his thin nose. “Is that English plain enough?”
I ignored my calls.
For most of the day, I sat in complete shock on my couch, staring out at the Austin skyline, an unlit cigarette in one hand and the doctor’s words rolling over and over in my head.
A heart attack.
A stroke.
Fuck, I’m only thirty-two.
I couldn’t believe it. I remembered the warning signs, subtle but there, enough for any man to take notice if he didn’t have his head so far up his ass. Dennis had told me the drinking would kill me. Alice had tried to get me to quit smoking over and over again. Even my mother had commented on the stress I was under, telling me that it was the stress that had taken my dad away.
Funny, I always thought it was his good nature and care for others.
My mother hadn’t thought that was funny, and right now, neither did I.
I laid my head back, rolling the cigarette between my fingers as I rubbed at my chest. Dying was not on any of my to-do lists. To say I wasn’t ready for it was an understatement; it fucking terrified me. Not that I didn’t have anything to show for my thirty-two years. I was a multi-billionaire. I could roll tobacco in hundred-dollar bills and smoke three dozen of them a day for years, and still I wouldn’t see a dent in my bank account. I was on top of the world, doing what I wanted, when I wanted, partying and fucking every night. Whoever said money couldn’t buy happiness didn’t have the money I had.
Much good your money’s doing for you now.
I frowned, suddenly angry at the doctor who tried to convince me to stay at the hospital for more tests. What the fuck did he know? I could buy good health if I wanted to. I could pay the best doctors in the world to turn all these test results around. I could pay the fucking angel of death to leave me the fuck alone!
